Today I turn 66 which is meaningful for two reasons: one, I am now eligible for full Social Security benefits.  More significantly, I have now lived my life respecting my lesbianism for as long I as I lived my life fearing it. 

I finally came out 33 years ago during a five-month period beginning July 18, 1986 and culminating on November 28.

On July 18, I saw, for the first time, the movie “Aliens,” the sequel to the 1979 film, “Alien,” in which a reptilian alien creature methodically slaughters the crew of a space ship with the exception of the heroine, Ripley, a junior officer, who finally faces down the monster in single combat. She was cool and intelligent, yet vulnerable. I was in love.

Ripley is called back into the fray in “Aliens,” to help a group of highly trained Marines fight off more of these sinister reptilian alien creatures after they apparently take over a space colony. The Marines are up against more than they bargained for because a lot of firepower and little wisdom don’t work against an enemy you don’t understand — think Vietnam. Essentially on her own, Ripley must attempt to protect Newt, a young girl, who is the sole survivor of the decimated space colony.  Ripley’s formerly unacknowledged maternal instinct is forced to rise to full inner scream as she faces her chief tormenter – the leader of the alien monsters and, ironically, grotesquely — a single mom herself.  She is not a creature to be taken lightly, but neither is Ripley. I saw the film three more times over the next three days. I barely slept. My heart was racing. I was in love.

But in love with whom, what, how and why? 

Wasn’t it obvious? The Good Mother had defeated the Bad Mother to protect a young girl. Ripley was the mother I never had and had always wanted.  No wonder I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I finally had a protective mother who would love me unconditionally! But wait. Why did I purchase a brown leather aviator’s jacket, a gray ribbed tank undershirt and a green one-piece flight suit – all pieces of clothing that Ripley wore in “Aliens”? Why had I taped a Time Magazine cover onto my bathroom mirror in such a way that the only person I saw when I looked into it was Sigourney Weaver?  Why was I pretending to be Ripley?  Good Lord, I was 33 years old.

Last Friday, May 31, after reading aloud to Beth a spontaneous writing exercise entitled, “Tell me about a time you were instantly enamored” – I finally realized the obvious about Ripley:  I wanted to be the Good Mother. I wanted to protect the Newt inside me – Sharie – the young girl who had been struggling so hard for so long to silence and fight off monsters that had long cornered and shamed her identity:

 “You talk about Ellie the way I talk about my boyfriend.” “Today I am going to read the definition of a word that describes your sister. That word is, ‘lesbian.’” “What you have written to your student teacher, Miss Mahnick, is called a ‘love letter.’ It’s not right for women to love women.” “Women who love women are farting in the face of God.” “You eat pussy, you cunt.” “We’ll lay hands on you and pray for your healing. You were created for heaven, not for hell.”

Journal entries in August, September and October of 1986 reveal that I began to read extensively on homosexuality: Is the Homosexual My Neighbor: Another Christian View, Rubyfruit Jungle, Embracing the Exile, Patience and Sarah, The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas, Surpassing the Love of Men, etc. etc. etc. (all now packed away in a box in the attic). At the end of October, a lesbian church friend took me to see the movie, “Desert Hearts,” and afterwards said, “You realize you’re a lesbian, don’t you? You fit the story more than any story I’ve read in books.”

She declared this with intimidating, matter-of-fact authority.  Heart racing and unable to sleep, I sought the counsel of a pastor friend who advised the following:

“Read the book of Philippians [New Testament] asking yourself this question: ‘Who does God want me to be?’ Write down what God says.” She then said, “I invite you to live as though were a lesbian to see if it feels true.” She took my hands into hers and prayed for wisdom and compassion.

So I read Philippians and a month later, sent a “coming out” letter to my most beloved friends. This is a much longer story, of course, that I intend to complete, but perhaps the most appropriate ending for a Spark and Spitfire post is the beginning of that November 28, 1986 letter:

No, this isn’t a Christmas letter, but it is rather like a Thanksgiving letter although that was not in my mind until I began this sentence. I have never before written one letter of which copies were sent to friends, but I am using this method for a couple of reasons. One: many of you have been asking me the same questions regarding the issue I am writing about here; and two: I’m not sure I have the energy, or more honestly, the courage to write to you each, individually. I wonder if what I want to share will offend any of you; if matters of such privacy, delicacy and profundity are better left to the world of silence where the spirit of God resides most intimately. I also know myself well enough to know how much I crave controversy and enigma – so forgive any element of presumption, brashness or glee. The truth is, I am deeply frightened, yet invigorated by the woman I am becoming. My heart feels as though it is about to break; yet at the same time, it feels full and resilient.

That was 33 years ago. Thirty-three years later, my now 66-year-old full and resilient heart continues to beat and beseech me to complete the rest of my story, a story about a life that has never felt more true.